


The Usual

by Eligh



Series: Various Musings on How Clint Barton Should Join Phil Coulson's Motley Crew [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has been having a bad day. It gets... better?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Usual

It would have been a slight exaggeration to say that Clint saw it coming, but only a slight one.

To be precise, he hadn’t known _exactly_ when everything was going to go to shit, but he’d had a bad feeling about this whole—the whole _entirety_ of this mission—from the get-go. And while so, yeah, he’d been wary around a couple of these guys, what he _hadn’t_ figured on was an all-out mutiny. Teach him to do SHIELD a favor, the ingrates, ‘cause really, what the hell? Didn’t they vet their friggin operatives anymore? The whole organization had gone to shit since he’d quit.

Anyway, as of now, he’s ninety feet up a radio tower, which is all well and good since it’s about four in the morning and there aren’t any lights out this far in the middle of BFE, _but_ the cover of darkness isn’t going to do him much good when friggin _dawn_ comes, and Clint is sick. of this shit.

He can hear his team—or, actually _not_ his team, some sorta traitors or something, _whatever_ —moving down at ground level, and see the glint of moonlight reflecting off their weapons. And people ask him why he likes his bows matte.

This is a conundrum. On one hand, he’s sure he can take out at least three of them before they realize where he’s shooting from, but on the other, he’s sorta stuck where he is right now, and giving up his position might be a bad plan. Then again, he’ll be screwed one way or the other in a few minutes, judging by the low grey light that’s starting to creep over the edge of the eastern horizon, so he’s gotta do _something_ unless these dicks randomly decide to fuck off and give up looking for him before proper dawn hits. It’s unlikely, but hey, weirder things have happened.

It’s time like these that he misses Coulson’s voice in his ear, and hey, wow, annoying depressing thought is so totally unwelcome right now.

Ah, fuck it.

He draws, and sights a few inches above and to the right of the most secluded glint of metal. The _thwip_ of his arrow is near-inaudible, and there’s a muffled gurgle as Glint #1 falls to a more ground-level type position.

Glint numbers 2, 3, and 4 meet similar ends, but by the time 4 drops, numbers 5 through 12 have figured out where the hell the arrows are coming from and Clint’s forced to take evasive maneuvers.

“Shit shit shit,” he mutters as he swings over a particularly large space in the radio tower’s scaffolding. His fingers just barely brush the bar at far side of his jump and aw, hell—

He falls. Of _course_ he falls, but if there is one thing Clint is used to, it is falling off things. So he tucks and rolls and therefore only sorta wings his head on one of the lower juts of steel.

And so now he’s lying on his back in the scuffed dirt beneath the tower, eyes facing up toward the total blackness of void and space and nothingness and the circle of traitors around him all have their guns pointed at him, and it’s fitting, somehow.

Actually, no.

_Not_ fitting. Dumb. Yeah, ‘dumb’ is a much better adjective.

“Heeeyyy.” He draws it out, smiling a little, and flops his hands, though the world’s spinning a little too quickly and tilting at not quite the right angle, so he can’t sit up.

“Guys! Guys, guys, guys. You totally do not need to shoot me. Because I am…” Clint eyes the weird beret thing a couple of them have apparently decided to stick on their heads, because nothing says ‘sedition’ better than unfortunate sartorial choices. There’s an… octo-skull-thing in red stitching that’s visible on one. He narrows his eyes and guesses. “Hydra? Yeah, go team Hydra. Shit, that’s not the thing. I missed the memo. What’s the saying again?”

The apparent leader—Davis, and Clint had never liked that guy, the sanctimonious fuck—rolls his eyes and points his weapon. Seven others do the same, but three of them—

Clint blinks a trickle of blood out of his eyes and does some quick math. There’d been twelve operatives in this mission, not counting himself. He’d taken out four, so that left eight. Davis was the one in charge, leaving seven more.

Clint smiles.

“Ehheheh,” he manages, and the three mystery saviors take identical steps back and then promptly shoot every last one of the traitorous asses right in their, well, asses. It is epic and beautiful, and Clint’s pretty sure he recognizes that shooting stance and those heels on one of his rescuers.

“Barton,” Melinda says dryly as she peels off a black balaclava and shakes out her hair. She is the Disney princess of kicking ass, seriously. “What are you lying around for? We’ve got things to do.”

“Right, sorry,” he apologizes through a grin, and Melinda reaches out a hand, bracing him up. “Cutting it a little close, yeah?”

“We couldn’t get the Bus in any closer,” the second knight in shining Kevlar apologizes, and Clint recognizes Trip’s voice. He grins wider. Rescued in style, aw yeah.

“Sorry about the delay,” comes the final voice, and all mirth instantly disappears from Clint’s face. He spins, breath caught in his throat. Phil smiles sheepishly back at him, his rifle held loosely across his chest, his own ski mask tucked up on top of his head. “Hi, Clint.”

They stare at one another for, subjectively, several years. It’s really probably a couple seconds.

“Just,” Clint says, and then reconsiders. He takes a step forward, holding up a finger in a ‘wait’ gesture when Phil opens his mouth. Phil, as usual, ignores him forges on right ahead.

“I should have told you,” he begins, and so Clint punches him.

What. It is an entirely justified reaction.

Phil’s rifle drops to the ground and he staggers back a step; Clint’s vaguely aware that Melinda’s got a restraining hand on Trip’s shoulder, and then he’s grabbing hold of Phil’s frigging bulletproof vest and tugging him closer. Phil only flails a little before he’s righted himself enough to grab back, his nimble fingers worming under the straps of Clint’s quiver and tracing up the leather armor on the back of his tac suit.

Phil Coulson’s mouth tastes like blood, and his lips are chapped and dry.

“Fuck you, you asshole,” Clint breathes, and kisses him again.

This go-round, the subjectivity of elapsed time numbers in the eons, so probably a couple minutes pass. When Clint finally pulls away, they’re alone (minus the unconscious traitors surrounding them like a particularly morbid art installment) and Phil’s grinning at him.

“So,” he says. “What are you up to these days?”

Clint sighs. “You know, sir.” He eyes the bodies. “The usual.” Phil nods understandingly, and something pings in the back of Clint’s mind. He cocks his head. “What’s this about a Bus?”


End file.
